


The Art Of Mourning

by arkhamkjay



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Batman: A Death in the Family, Grieving, Jewish Bruce Wayne, death aftermath, jewish clark kent, major character death warning but like. it's jason we're used to it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 17:03:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15199397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arkhamkjay/pseuds/arkhamkjay
Summary: But it was not your fault but mineAnd it was your heart on the lineI really fucked it up this timeDidn't I, my dear?Didn't I, my dear?(Mumford & Sons - Little Lion Man)Bruce Wayne mourns the loss of his son in the only way he knows: blaming himself for everything.





	The Art Of Mourning

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly what it says on the can  
> Batman and Superman are both Jews and there's nothing DC can do about it!  
> Enjoy.

Bruce never learned how to grieve. 

It seemed, at times, he only knew to blame himself. He did it in every chance he had. Of course, the classic example of his parents’ death, which he hadn't known how to cope with. 

He decided the responsibility was on him. He convinced himself that it was somehow is fault, that if only he had done something remotely different - it wouldn't have happened. It must have been his fault, otherwise, why had he stayed alive? 

He was told it was an unhealthy way to think. He was sent to a therapist, and as stubborn as Bruce was he accepted, partly, some of the things which were being said there. 

Maybe the murder of two parents by a random mugger in an ally wasn't entirely the fault of a helpless child, after all. 

Oh, but this? This was all him. There isn't a single person in the world to convince him he isn't to blame. The guilt pulsed all through him, drowning him in it. He couldn't think beyond if. Couldn't do a thing. He took it all in, he knew he deserved every bit of it. 

He never learned how to grieve. He was so confused, it was almost laughable if it weren't so tragic. 

When he came back to the cave, fazed and hollow and feeling like someone reached in and pulled out his beating heart. He looked around but didn't see anything in front of him, just the image of his son seared on his vision forever.  
His son. Dead. 

He found it hard to breathe. He never learned how to grieve.  
He came to the cave, he didn't know what to do. He didn't understand what he was supposed to do. It became so blurred, and all other memories faded in comparison to the body of a child, lifeless. 

He presses his hand to his eyes and takes a shuddering breath. He tries to remember. He thinks Alfred took him away and sent Bruce to the showers. He didn't think about anything, just went ahead and did it, all his motions automatic and mechanic, as if someone else took over his body while his mind was so busy trying to process what happened. 

And he changed his clothes, then realized what he’d done and teared his shirt collar. 

He was doing everything wrong. He never learned how to grieve. 

There was a burial. A body, in a small but very fine and expensive wooden coffin. 

He thinks about his parents, wrapped in simple cotton fabric as they were lowered to the ground. From ashes they had come and to ashes they returned.  
His son was there now. Buried just as deep in the ground as them. 

He teared his clothes. He stopped shaving -which wasn't so hard when he'd already stopped doing anything else. He just sat there. 

He never learned how to grieve. 

And he’s doing it wrong, of course. He is all alone. There is Alfred, making and serving food that will stay on the table uneaten. Bruce can't bring himself to look at him, terrified of seeing the blame he feels reflecting in the eyes of the man who raised him. Alfred is right to blame him, but it doesn't mean Bruce is ready to face it. No more than he’s ready to face anyone else. 

You're not supposed to grieve alone. He remembers after his parents’ funeral, which was itself full of people, he was surrounded with people all week long. They came and went and brought food and ate and talked. He had lost his parents but there was still life in the house. 

There isn't any now. Here he is, sitting all by himself. He barely recognizes which room he’s in and it doesn't matter a bit. He thinks of the people who might've come if they knew. 

Leslie. Does she know? Did Alfred tell her? Bruce certainly didn't. But she has always been so kind, both to him and to Jason. It was too painful to think about how much Jason trusted her and liked her. She had already saved him from death once. 

Bruce feels his heart expand enough to fill a room and wonders how the weight of it doesn't crush him just when it starts to shrink to the size of a single grain of sand.  
It isn't her fault, obviously. She was a continent away at the time. 

It was his. His responsibility. Why did he ever let Jason continue to work with him after that? He still remembers the anxiety clouding him all that night, The only calming part was Jason’s repetitive heartbeat and Leslie’s stories to distract him. 

He tried. He apologized, the moment Jason awakened. Promised him he wouldn't ever put him under such danger ever again. Told his son that he doesn't have to continue being Robin, it’s okay - his well being was above all. 

Jason laughed. Because he was still alive and he could breathe and laugh and smile and say there's nothing to stop him from being Robin, because he was alive and there and not dead and six feet under. 

Bruce’s hands are shaking now and he notices but isn't doing anything to try and stop it.  
Leslie is probably busy enough with the clinic as it is. He shouldn't even think of calling her in. 

There was Barbara. Smart, exceptional Barbara. She was close to him. She tutored him and helped him and talked to him. Jason used to go to the Gordons’ residence, but from time to time, she would come and visit them all, and sit with Jay on his math homework. 

Bruce would come home and hear them talking and laughing over things that weren't equations or calc exercises when he’d walk over the library door. 

Library. He was sitting in the library now, he realizes. And his son and his tutor - whom was much more than that to all of them - weren't here now. He was alone.

He reminisces about how she had even agreed to wear the costume again and go out on missions with the new Robin. 

At first just because he’d asked, he wanted to get her impression of him as a vigilante. She'd done it, and then, miraculously, continued to do so. Jason seemed to enjoy her company in the field, too. 

Bruce wants her here. He knows he can't and shouldn't invite her, but he wants someone to take the weight off of him, just a little. It's wrong, because he knows she shouldn't carry any of it herself. It's his pain to cope with alone. 

There's Jim, too, but he doesn't dwell too much on thoughts of him. He barely knew Jason - Robin, yes. Glimpses of him on the roof, the sidekick in the Dark Knight’s shadow. Talking with his officers and detectives about cases. Fighting next to his side. 

Gordon didn't see much of Jason as himself, as the kid he was. Maybe Bruce should have invited him over more often, at times Barbara was there too. Bruce closes his eyes and wishes he could go back in time and do it, just have a good dinner with his close friends and family. He almost smiles at the thought of bragging at Jason’s GPA in school to Gordon. The meal goes so smoothly in his mind he almost doesn't imagine the tension of Dick not being there. 

Even if he was capable of talking to Dick right now, about Jason or anything else, it doesn't matter. He isn’t even on earth right now. Some mission with his team. Bruce wants to feel angry at him just to take a break from the crippling guilt that fills every part of him. 

Dick cared for Jason, no matter how bad things were between him and Bruce. Even his fury when he found out there was a new Robin, was directed towards his former mentor, but never Jay himself. 

He got over it incredibly fast, worked on cases with him and took him to meet the Titans. They even went out on a ski trip together. He was almost like an older brother for him. Or maybe he was. Maybe he could be if Bruce weren't there, because with how much time Dick spent with Jason, he had spent even more avoiding Bruce. 

And for a good reason, since nearly every time they met their feud awakened. Sometimes not even about what they fought over in the first place, but they both could be creative and find new reasons to be mad at each other.

Jason hated it, said he had enough of fighting and shouting back with his old family. Bruce felt bad about it then. 

Bruce is feeling terrible now. 

He is torturing himself with these thoughts. He's torturing himself anyway, but thinking of other people with Jason hurts him in another way. 

There’s Selina, too. Maybe he shouldn't be thinking about her now. He shouldn’t consider her any different from the other criminals he deals with. 

But he does. She is different. 

She could be so sweet and caring. She used to be so good with Dick. It was almost fun with her. Bruce wishes Jason could get to know her better.  
He never learned how to grieve. 

He’s supposed to sit for seven days since the moment of death, but he doesn't have the slightest clue what day it is. Should he wear a yarmulke? Does he still even have one? He thinks maybe the last time he wore it was to his parents funeral. And before that, to the Kanes’. 

It seemed the only connection to his religion he still has was through death. God, Jason wasn't even Jewish. Would he want Bruce grieving - trying to, at least - this way? Did he want to be buried in a box or cremated? He never knew. 

With all the danger of everything they'd done, it never crossed his mind to ask a child what would he want to be done in a case of his death.

He lit a memorial candle, too. Maybe more than one and he just can't remember it now. He would light every single candle he had if it would change something. If it’d make him feel less guilty. Less alone. If it'd bring Jason back, he would light up the entire world. 

No, he's certainly not grieving right. But when has he ever done anything right? He keeps doing wrongs every step of the way. He ruined everything with Dick. He endangered Jason - he shouldn't even have the right to be a parent. Everyone around him seems to get hurt and it's not coincidental. 

He's thinking about Kate now. About her at his parents’ funeral and her at Gabrielle and Elizabeth’s. He barely saw her these days. Would she come now, if she knew? He should have involved her more in his life - of course, not too involved, he wouldn't won't her to know about Batman. But maybe she could have got to know Jason. What a great kid he was. He could have had an aunt. 

Bruce feels tears welling up in his eyes and soon they're streaking down his cheeks, where tears were already shed and dried before. Jason could have had a big, loving family. If only Bruce had done it right. Done it better. And now there's no way to get better, not room for improvement, no second chance. 

Jason Todd was gone for good and he will never come back.  
Bruce Wayne lost his son, and with him went the ability to function. 

Shiv’ah means he's supposed to sit and grieve for seven days, but he doesn't even know what day it is and even if he did he can't imagine himself getting up in the next few years. He doesn't eat or drink, he doesn't move or talk. Maybe he sleeps, but he doesn't notice it. 

There's a part of him that wants to go back to the cave, wants to wear the same suit he wore when he lifted up a body of a child from the wrecked ground. He wants to get out to the dark Gotham night and destroy anything and anyone in his way. 

He wants to destroy the Joker. His throat tightens. He doesn't wants to think about it. He can't even get up, not to say run around in the city. 

He won't think of it. 

He can only think about Jason and how he's the reason for his son’s death. He wants to sit here forever and dwell in his thoughts until he can be gone as well. Maybe he’ll meet his parents. Maybe he’ll meet Jason, and he could apologize for everything. Maybe he’ll even forgive him. 

Jason should be in heaven. There isn't really one in Judaism, but it's okay because Jay wasn't Jewish anyway. He should be there. He was good. He deserves it. And Bruce won't get to meet him there, and that's only fair. 

He's so trapped in his mind he barely notices he's on the carpeted floor now. He's shaking and weeping and he can barely breathe. And his body is gasping for air even if Bruce doesn't necessarily want to, even if he doesn't thinks he deserves it. 

He comes down after a while. He doesn't get up from the ground. When he lays his head back it rests on a wall. He closes his wet eyes and opens them for just a moment, and maybe he imagines it but he sees a flash of red and blue through the wide library doors, passing by the garden outside. He closes his eyes again. Maybe he can sleep here now. He’ll rest, just for a little while. 

His breathing and heartbeat start to slow when the door opens. If he had any more mental energy he would've jumped to his legs and got into a defensive fight post. Now he just turns his head. 

Alfred is standing there, formal as ever. But he is tired and tense. “Master Bruce, Master Kent is here to see you.”  
Clark stepps from behind him, wearing a plain shirt and pants that weren't tights with underwear on top of them. He looks worried. 

Bruce isn't exactly in the mood to greet and welcome him in. Apparently, he doesn't need to, since he invites himself in and sits on the floor next to him.  
Bruce stays silent. He hasn't much to say, and even if he had, he's not sure he can talk. His throat feels tight and dry. 

“I'm sorry.” Clark says quietly. 

Bruce doesn't answer. Maybe he could talk silently, just move his mouth to say the words but stay silent. Clark could read his lips. 

“You haven't shaved,” how visible was it? His facial hair didn't grow fast, but he already established that he had lost any track of time. “You have a tear in your shirt,” Clark gestured with his hand. “I'm pretty sure I saw a lit candle there.” 

He could've flown over the graveyard. He could've asked Alfred. He could've looked around the manor and see the gaping hole in this home, a space that could never be filled again. 

Instead, he's pointing out Jewish grieving traditions like he’s the detective here.

“Where's Jason?” Clark asks, voice quieter than before. 

A shudder goes through Bruce’s body and he feels his friend’s arms surround him even before he starts sobbing uncontrollably again. His eyes barely dried out from the last time. 

Clark holds him, steady and warm and completely silent now. In retrospect, Bruce might appreciate the fact that he didn't crush all of his bones in that hug. He could do that at any given moment. 

But now, Bruce just cries. He cries and he cries and he cries because his son is gone. 

Because the answer to the question “where’s Jason?” Was ‘a few miles down the road, buried next to my parents.’ Because instead of sitting in the library with them, in the chair Bruce was sitting in just moments ago, and reading a book, instead of lying on his bed, listening to music, or working on his homework with a friend who was like a sister or talking with the man who could be his brother or eating from the food his grandfather made, instead of all the things he could be doing now, he's dead. And that echoes through every bone in Bruce's body and shakes him to his core as he holds on for dear life to a man that could kill him with almost no effort.

When he comes down it's not because his mind finds rest again, it's because his body is tired from crying and shaking. Clark lets him go, gently, and leaves a hand on his shoulder as Bruce lies back against the wall. 

“It's not your fault.” Clark says. 

If he had the energy for it, Bruce would've laughed. That's one of the first things Clark says to him. So fast, and without Bruce himself telling him anything before. It makes him sick, for a moment, how vulnerable he was just a moment ago. It frightens him how good he knows him. Maybe he should add that to the list of reasons Superman is a threat. 

“I promise you I don't have the power of reading your mind, too. You're just very predictable.” 

Bruce grunts in annoyment. There's a small smile on Clark’s face. Then it goes away. “But I mean it. It's not on you.” 

Bruce thinks about the therapist attempting to explain to him there was nothing he could have done to save his parents. Well, it's not the case here. 

“What's the…” he starts, his voice hoarse, and wishes he had a glass of water. “I'm supposed to be a hero. To save people.” He says lamely. 

“We can't save everyone, Bruce. You know that.” 

“I don't want to save everyone.” He leans his head back and looks at the ceiling. “I just want to save him.” He swallows, tears blurring his vision again. 

From the corner of his eye he sees him nod. “I know,” 

He just sits there with him in silence, his hand still in Bruce's shoulder. 

“What day is it,” he murmurs at some point. His head feels heavy. He wants to sleep. 

“Tuesday.”

Jason died on Saturday. He's been sitting here for almost three days now.  
“Hour,” he croaks, instead of saying he doesn't think he could get up at the end of the week. 

“About 12:30.” Clark has a watch. Bruce forgot to put his back on. 

“Jason would've been in school right now,” he tells him, instead of saying that there's too much time until the end of the day and yet, not enough.  
“Hmm.”

More silence. Then Clark says, “you should eat.” 

Bruce replies with the most eloquent and convincing argument known to man. “No.”

“I bet you haven't eaten anything since.”

“You would be right.” 

“My ma makes the most delicious, irresistible cherry cheesecakes.” 

“I'm certain she does, but Alfred’s top chef dishes didn't make my appetite grow either.” He tells to the ceiling. 

“With all due respect for Alfred’s cuisine, and there's a lot, but his cooking isn't ma’s baking.” Clark insists. 

“I'm starting to suspect you're just using me as an excuse to ask her to make it.” The tiniest bit of humor, that only metahumans with super hearing and people close to him enough to recognize the slightest changes in him, sneaks into his voice. 

Clark smiles. 

“I would never! I don't need any excuse to ask her to make it. In fact, I'm sure it'd be no trouble at all and I could go and bring it here in less than an hour from now.”  
Bruce frowns. Superman can fly from Gotham to Smallville and back in minutes, but he doesn't want him to leave. 

Clark notices. “You know,” he says, gentle again, and in another time Bruce would be pissed at the care presented to him. But now he needs it and accepts it. “I could even ask her to come here. Pa too, if you want the company.” He suggests. 

Bruce shakes his head. He tries to come up with a good way to say that he wants only Clark with him now. He says, “one Kent is enough.” 

Clark smiles again. His hand, that left Bruce’s side meanwhile, wraps around his shoulders as they sit next to each other. 

What a pair they are. The alien that could destroy the entire Gotham City with little to no effort, and his multi billionaire friend grieving over his late son. 

Bruce falls asleep at some point. He wakes up on the library floor, with a pillow under his head and a blanket covering him to his chin, and an amazing scent of a certain cherry cheesecake.

**Author's Note:**

> the traditions I mentioned here are all part of the Shiv'ah (usually written in English "Shiva".) This is taken from my own experience and general knowledge of Jewish greiving traditions.  
> I tried to take away from comics canon as much as possible. I do remember reading once about Batman talking about Jason's death with Superman, but I wanted something more personal of them as Bruce and Clark (it might've come out more romantic that I'd meant, and I have no problem with people viewing it as such).  
> credit and critism are appreciated, but please consider that this is my first time posting anything on AO3 and English is my second language.  
> This was beta'd by my amazing friend May, and I got the name idea from my other friend Shaked.  
> feel totally free to ask or talk to me about anything!  
> [my tumblr](http://arkhamkjay.tumblr.com)


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